Control

I never realized that my unconventional ability could be called a superpower until the day I used it to defend myself.

The very large man pinned me against a cold, damp brick wall. The gun in my face kept me from thinking about how my leg was pressed against a filthy garbage can. I didn’t have any money, and I knew this was actually a bad thing if you are being mugged. When they find that their efforts are in vain, muggers tend to get cranky and frustrated and slightly trigger-happy. Thinking I was going to die anyway, I figured the least I could do was see to it that my attacker had a very uncomfortable get-away sprint. For a moment, I forced away the fear and allowed the adrenaline to focus all my energy on his insides. My concentration was dagger-sharp. Immediately, I saw the predator confidence fade from his face. He tried to steady his hand as the gurgles began. I could hear the anger in his intestines growing. There was a great explosion, and my attacker dropped to one knee. Foulness began flowing from his pant leg, but I remained still. His trigger finger was shakey, so I didn’t want to take any chances.

I usually release people after the initial burst, but this time, I held on as he emptied out onto the street. He grew weak as he rapidly dehydrated from what was essentially a 24-hr stomach flew concentrated into 90 seconds. Eventually, my attacker crumbled into the rancid puddle he created. I would have kicked away his gun like they always do in the movies, but it landed in the mess. Part of me hoped he would try to pick it up as I fled the scene, but he was no longer conscious.

Could I become some kind of superhero? Would I call myself IBS Man or Bowel Master? What would my tights look like, or my logo? What would my relationship with the media be like? Who would play me in the movie adaptation of the comic book I would write about my adventures? These questions were of less practical importance than the ones I should have been asking myself. For one thing, I should realize that, while my control of his bowels was enough to subdue the attacker this time, it might not always work out like that. He had plenty of time to fire off a round before he collapsed but just happened to be too confused to act. Once word of my abilities reached the underworld, criminals would no longer be taken by surprise. They might even start wearing diapers and carrying Gatorade with them. Drinking Gatorade and shooting a gun at the same time is probably not that difficult.

Also, a superhero job would probably require me to spend a lot of time in dirty alleys. There’s always a lot of filthy garbage and rats and wet oozing stuff coming out of dumpsters in dark alleys. That’s not really my cup of tea. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before a defecating thug got some of his yuck on my shoes or whatever.

The more that I think about it, the more I realize that I should skip the “having adventures” part and go right to making the comic book. I will limit the use of my powers to humiliating people who are acting like dicks in public. An especially good target will be people who don’t clean up after their dogs. Or maybe I should attack corporate douchebags. I’ll sign up with a temp agency, and monitor the office culture of the companies I get assigned to. When I come across bosses who makes people stay late or are not very generous with bonuses, then I will see to it that they never make it to their fancy private bathrooms.

Some people deserve to forfeit the control of their bowls. I will spend the rest of my days finding these people and taking that control away from them. What could be more heroic than that?